Chapter 8: The Traitorous Pilot
1626 Words
The runway lights at The Gilded Cage flickered red, casting a sickly glow over the tarmac still slick from the recent rain. Before Mateo Rossi, the nose of the Antonov An-26 loomed like a giant jaw, ready to swallow Elena Vance into eternal darkness. The roar of its turboprop engines was deafening, sending violent vibrations that traveled from the soles of Mateo’s feet straight to his spine.
Mateo took a long breath, steadying his wildly racing heart. He felt for the pocket pistol behind his belt and ensured his smoke grenades were within reach. His eyes were locked on the figure of Elena, limp on a stretcher, about to be loaded into the gut of that death trap of a cargo plane.
Hey! Stop! Put the stretcher down! Mateo shouted, his voice cutting through the mechanical scream of the plane.
The two hired pilots in desert-camo uniforms stopped. They turned with expressions of confusion and suspicion. Julian Vane, who was busy puffing on his cigar at the edge of the runway, frowned. He strode forward with an arrogant gait, flicking his burning cigar butt onto the pavement.
Mateo? What are you doing? I told you to stay put in my jet, Vane barked, his voice rising an octave in agitation.
Mateo did not stop walking. He put on a mask of practiced panic, the look of a man who had just received grim news from the highest authorities. He held his communication tablet high.
Boss, a message just came through the central encrypted channel! You didn't get it? Mateo said with an urgent tone. He stood directly between Vane and Elena’s stretcher. Interpol just picked up the ghost transmission of this plane. They’ve already dispatched two interceptors from the nearest base. If this cargo plane takes off now, they’ll be blown out of the sky over the ocean in less than ten minutes!
Vane froze. His face, until moments ago radiating triumph, suddenly turned deathly pale. What?! That's impossible! This route is secure. I paid the people in the control tower!
Your money is useless if their radar has already locked onto us, Boss! Mateo cut in quickly, his voice heavy with tension. The message from headquarters says. Change of plan. Put the cargo on my jet. The Gulfstream has legal registration and a more sophisticated radar-jamming system. We’ll fly a commercial civilian route for cover. Hurry, Boss! Before they get here!
Vane stared at Mateo, then glanced toward the old Antonov. Doubt clouded his eyes. His sociopathic nature usually made him suspicious, but his fear of losing an asset worth millions was far greater.
Are you sure, Mateo? If you’re lying to me... Vane left the threat hanging, his hand hovering over the holster at his waist.
I don’t want to rot in prison because you picked the wrong plane, Vane! Use your brain! Mateo snapped back. This was the biggest gamble of his life. If Vane checked his own radar, it would all be over. Hey, you two! Move that stretcher to my jet now! Move!
The camo-clad pilots exchanged glances, then looked at Vane. Vane gave a quick, hesitant nod. Fine, take her to Rossi’s jet! Move it!
Mateo felt the adrenaline surging in his veins. He immediately helped lift Elena’s stretcher. His hand brushed against Elena’s arm, which was cold as ice. The woman opened her eyes slightly, her vision blurry and vacant from the sedative, but Mateo squeezed her hand gently. A signal that he would soon take control of this storm.
I’ve got you, Sparrow, Mateo whispered very softly as they ran toward the Gulfstream G650 parked a hundred meters behind them.
They roughly shoved Elena’s body into the jet’s cabin. Mateo immediately pushed the guards out. I need time to do a manual engine startup! Get away from the engine area!
I’m staying inside, Teo! one of Vane’s guards shouted, reaching for the stairs.
No! The plane’s weight balance has to be precise for evasive maneuvers! Go with Vane! Mateo shoved the man hard enough to knock him over, then pulled the cabin door lever with all his might.
CLICK!
The airtight door slammed shut. The roar of the Antonov outside suddenly dimmed, replaced by a chilling silence inside the jet cabin. Mateo didn’t waste a second. He sprinted to the cockpit, vaulted over the co-pilot’s seat, and began flipping switches with a speed impossible for a normal pilot.
Come on, come on, wake up, damn you... Mateo muttered.
The avionics lights flickered to life. He pressed the ignition button for engine number one. Usually, these Rolls-Royce engines required several minutes to warm up to prevent mechanical failure. But Mateo didn't have minutes. He had seconds.
Suddenly, a shout echoed from the direction of the villa.
MATEO! YOU DIRTY TRAITOR!
Mateo glanced at the exterior camera monitor. Viktor. The giant had managed to break free and was running toward the runway with a bloodied face, clutching an assault rifle. Vane looked stunned down there, realizing he had been played like a fool.
SHOOT! SHOOT THE PLANE! DON'T LET HIM TAKE OFF! Vane commanded over the runway loudspeaker.
RATATATATATAT!
Bullets began to hammer the fuselage. The sound of metal meeting lead was horrific, like a hail of stones striking a giant tin can. One bullet shattered the rear cabin window, causing Elena, who had just regained consciousness, to scream hysterically.
Mateo! What’s happening?! Elena scrambled on the cabin floor, her face filled with terror.
Hold on tight, Elena! Don't stand up! Mateo yelled from the cockpit.
Engine number one roared in protest. The temperature alarm glowed red from the brutal cold start. Mateo didn't care. He released the parking brake and slammed the throttle to the max. The jet lurched forward, barreling down the tarmac with the Antonov’s cargo door still wide open only a few dozen meters ahead.
Viktor stood directly in the path, spraying the cockpit glass with bullets. One round grazed Mateo’s left shoulder, tearing through his uniform and leaving a searing burn. Mateo groaned, but his hand never left the controls.
You want to play rough, Vik? Let’s play, Mateo hissed.
Mateo didn’t aim the plane toward the clear runway path. Instead, he yanked the yoke sharply to the right. He was aiming for Vane’s Antonov. He knew the cargo plane was packed with extra fuel for their long-haul trip.
Mateo, what are you doing?! Elena shouted, watching the scene from the side window.
I’m going to give them some fireworks!
Mateo pushed the jet to 100 knots down the runway. When he was only a few meters away from the Antonov, Mateo pulled back slightly to lift the nose, then intentionally banked the left wing toward the Antonov’s running engine.
CRASH!
The sound of metal meeting metal was deafening. The Gulfstream’s left wing, made of carbon and titanium, struck the Antonov’s propellers like a giant sword. A massive spray of sparks exploded into the predawn darkness. Mateo felt a violent jolt that nearly slammed his head into the instrument panel. The cargo plane was dragged, its fuel tanks ruptured, and in an instant, a massive explosion consumed the Antonov, sending a fireball billowing high into the sky.
The impact sent Mateo’s jet skidding sideways. Its left wing was now badly damaged, but the engine was still roaring. The shockwave of the explosion sent Viktor and Vane’s guards flying like dry leaves.
Now or never, Mateo whispered.
He pushed the throttle even deeper.
Even as the left wing shuddered violently and the structural damage alarm wailed. CRITICAL DAMAGE, MASTER CAUTION. Mateo forced the plane to keep going. He pulled the nose up. The air began to catch the wings.
Slowly, but surely, the jet broke free from gravity.
Mateo looked down through the side window. Below, the runway at The Gilded Cage looked like a little hell on earth. The Antonov exploded once more, sending debris showering into the air. Julian Vane stood frozen at the edge of the tarmac, his face illuminated by the flames, twisted in pure devastation. He had just lost his asset, his plane, and his authority in a single night.
The jet streaked toward the sea, climbing shakily into the pre-dawn darkness. Mateo only dared to let out a breath once the altimeter hit five thousand feet. He glanced at his bleeding shoulder, then back at Elena, who was slumped in the seat behind him, watching him with an unreadable expression, a mix of disbelief, fear, and profound gratitude.
"Are... are we safe?" Elena asked, her voice trembling.
Mateo leaned back in his seat, his hands still shaking from the lingering adrenaline. He looked at the instrument panel, now a sea of red warning lights.
"I can't promise that yet, Miss," Mateo replied, pointing to the engine indicators. "Our engines are dying because I pushed them cold, and the left wing is hanging on by a thread. We’re flying on a miracle right now."
Suddenly, another alarm blared. This one was louder and more urgent. ENGINE FIRE, LEFT WING.
Mateo stared out the window. The left wing began to billow thick black smoke that trailed off into the night wind. In the distance, dawn was starting to break, but for them, the morning sky promised no peace.
"Hold on tight, Elena," Mateo whispered, his voice returning to a cold, focused edge. "Because it looks like we just jumped out of the frying pan and straight into the fire."
The jet continued to race into the dark night sky, leaving the blood-soaked island behind, while the engine alarms wailed incessantly in the cockpit, accompanying their journey into even greater uncertainty. Mateo Rossi had betrayed them, and now, the entire world, especially Julian Vane, would hunt them to the edge of the horizon.
- Writer
